July 1.

The consolation Charlotte can bring to an invalid I experience
from my own heart, which suffers more from her absence than many
a poor creature lingering on a bed of sickness. She is gone to
spend a few days in the town with a very worthy woman, who is given
over by the physicians, and wishes to have Charlotte near her in
her last moments. I accompanied her last week on a visit to the
Vicar of S, a small village in the mountains, about a league
hence. We arrived about four o’clock: Charlotte had taken her
little sister with her. When we entered the vicarage court, we
found the good old man sitting on a bench before the door, under
the shade of two large walnut-trees. At the sight of Charlotte
he seemed to gain new life, rose, forgot his stick, and ventured
to walk toward her. She ran to him, and made him sit down again;
then, placing herself by his side, she gave him a number of messages
from her father, and then caught up his youngest child, a dirty,
ugly little thing, the joy of his old age, and kissed it. I wish
you could have witnessed her attention to this old man, how she
raised her voice on account of his deafness; how she told him of
healthy young people, who had been carried off when it was least
expected; praised the virtues of Carlsbad, and commended his
determination to spend the ensuing summer there; and assured him
that he looked better and stronger than he did when she saw him
last. I, in the meantime, paid attention to his good lady. The
old man seemed quite in spirits; and as I could not help admiring
the beauty of the walnut-trees, which formed such an agreeable
shade over our heads, he began, though with some little difficulty,
to tell us their history. “As to the oldest,” said he, “we do not
know who planted it,  some say one clergyman, and some another:
but the younger one, there behind us, is exactly the age of my wife,
fifty years old next October; her father planted it in the morning,
and in the evening she came into the world. My wife’s father was
my predecessor here, and I cannot tell you how fond he was of that
tree; and it is fully as dear to me. Under the shade of that very
tree, upon a log of wood, my wife was seated knitting, when I, a
poor student, came into this court for the first time, just seven
and twenty years ago.” Charlotte inquired for his daughter. He
said she was gone with Herr Schmidt to the meadows, and was with
the haymakers. The old man then resumed his story, and told us
how his predecessor had taken a fancy to him, as had his daughter
likewise; and how he had become first his curate, and subsequently
his successor. He had scarcely finished his story when his daughter
returned through the garden, accompanied by the above-mentioned
Herr Schmidt. She welcomed Charlotte affectionately, and I confess
I was much taken with her appearance. She was a lively-looking,
good-humoured brunette, quite competent to amuse one for a short
time in the country. Her lover (for such Herr Schmidt evidently
appeared to be) was a polite, reserved personage, and would not
join our conversation, notwithstanding all Charlotte’s endeavours
to draw him out. I was much annoyed at observing, by his countenance,
that his silence did not arise from want of talent, but from caprice
and ill-humour. This subsequently became very evident, when we
set out to take a walk, and Frederica joining Charlotte, with whom
I was talking, the worthy gentleman’s face, which was naturally
rather sombre, became so dark and angry that Charlotte was obliged
to touch my arm, and remind me that I was talking too much to
Frederica. Nothing distresses me more than to see men torment
each other; particularly when in the flower of their age, in the
very season of pleasure, they waste their few short days of sunshine
in quarrels and disputes, and only perceive their error when it
is too late to repair it. This thought dwelt upon my mind; and
in the evening, when we returned to the vicar’s, and were sitting
round the table with our bread end milk, the conversation turned
on the joys and sorrows of the world, I could not resist the
temptation to inveigh bitterly against ill-humour. “We are apt,"
said I, “to complain, but - with very little cause, that our happy
days are few, and our evil days many. If our hearts were always
disposed to receive the benefits Heaven sends us, we should acquire
strength to support evil when it comes.” “But,” observed the vicar’s
wife, “we cannot always command our tempers, so much depends upon
the constitution: when the body suffers, the mind is ill at ease."
“I acknowledge that,” I continued; “but we must consider such a
disposition in the light of a disease, and inquire whether there
is no remedy for it.”

“I should be glad to hear one,” said Charlotte: “at least, I think
very much depends upon ourselves; I know it is so with me. When
anything annoys me, and disturbs my temper, I hasten into the
garden, hum a couple of country dances, and it is all right with
me directly.” “That is what I meant,” I replied; “ill-humour
resembles indolence: it is natural to us; but if once we have
courage to exert ourselves, we find our work run fresh from our
hands, and we experience in the activity from which we shrank a
real enjoyment.” Frederica listened very attentively: and the
young man objected, that we were not masters of ourselves, and
still less so of our feelings. “The question is about a disagreeable
feeling,” I added, “from which every one would willingly escape,
but none know their own power without trial. Invalids are glad
to consult physicians, and submit to the most scrupulous regimen,
the most nauseous medicines, in order to recover their health."
I observed that the good old man inclined his head, and exerted
himself to hear our discourse; so I raised my voice, and addressed
myself directly to him. We preach against a great many crimes,"
I observed, “but I never remember a sermon delivered against
ill-humour.” “That may do very well for your town clergymen,"
said he: “country people are never ill-humoured; though, indeed,
it might be useful, occasionally, to my wife for instance, and the
judge.” We all laughed, as did he likewise very cordially, till
he fell into a fit of coughing, which interrupted our conversation
for a time. Herr Schmidt resumed the subject. “You call ill
humour a crime,” he remarked, “but I think you use too strong a
term.” “Not at all,” I replied, “if that deserves the name which
is so pernicious to ourselves and our neighbours. Is it not enough
that we want the power to make one another happy, must we deprive
each other of the pleasure which we can all make for ourselves?
Show me the man who has the courage to hide his ill-humour, who
bears the whole burden himself, without disturbing the peace of
those around him. No: ill-humour arises from an inward consciousness
of our own want of merit, from a discontent which ever accompanies
that envy which foolish vanity engenders. We see people happy,
whom we have not made so, and cannot endure the sight.” Charlotte
looked at me with a smile; she observed the emotion with which I
spoke: and a tear in the eyes of Frederica stimulated me to proceed.
“Woe unto those,” I said, “who use their power over a human heart
to destroy the simple pleasures it would naturally enjoy! All the
favours, all the attentions, in the world cannot compensate for
the loss of that happiness which a cruel tyranny has destroyed."
My heart was full as I spoke. A recollection of many things which
had happened pressed upon my mind, and filled my eyes with tears.
“We should daily repeat to ourselves,” I exclaimed, “that we should
not interfere with our friends, unless to leave them in possession
of their own joys, and increase their happiness by sharing it with
them! But when their souls are tormented by a violent passion,
or their hearts rent with grief, is it in your power to afford
them the slightest consolation?

“And when the last fatal malady seizes the being whose untimely
grave you have prepared, when she lies languid and exhausted before
you, her dim eyes raised to heaven, and the damp of death upon her
pallid brow, there you stand at her bedside like a condemned
criminal, with the bitter feeling that your whole fortune could
not save her; and the agonising thought wrings you, that all your
efforts are powerless to impart even a moment’s strength to the
departing soul, or quicken her with a transitory consolation.”

At these words the remembrance of a similar scene at which I had
been once present fell with full force upon my heart. I buried my
face in my handkerchief, and hastened from the room, and was only
recalled to my recollection by Charlotte’s voice, who reminded me
that it was time to return home. With what tenderness she chid
me on the way for the too eager interest I took in everything!
She declared it would do me injury, and that I ought to spare
myself. Yes, my angel! I will do so for your sake.